The sound was almost foreign to him, as he hadn’t heard the jingle in ninety days. He cocked his head and considered the screen. It was a 256 area code, and below the digits that he didn’t recognize was a location. Guntersville, Alabama.
Jason let the phone ring without answering. Then he checked his voice messages and saw that he had five from the same Guntersville number.
Jana . . .
“Shit,” he said and reached for the beer bottle. He held the glass to his forehead and closed his eyes. Just a tiny sip. One little taste . . .
Jason took out his wallet and placed a twenty and a ten on the table. Still clutching the bottle, he brought it to his nose and breathed in the scent of beer, lime, and salt. He again closed his eyes. One fucking sip . . .
The phone began to ring again. He didn’t have to look at it to know that it was the same number, but he gazed at the screen anyway, confirming his suspicion on the second ring. Jana . . .
He’d spent so much time in rehab trying to get a handle on his dysfunctional family. Now here he was, at the most famous bar on the panhandle, being tempted by a beer and his crazy sister. He’d been out less than an hour.
Three rings.
Jason gazed past the stage to the gulf, clutching the bottle in a death grip but not taking a drink.
Four rings.
Five.
Six.
Jason set the drink down and answered the phone.
“This is Jason Rich,” he said, hearing the quiver in his voice as he walked away from the table and the still undrunk bottle of Corona. As his feet touched the sand and his eyes fixated on the ocean, he heard the voice that haunted his dreams.
“J. J., it’s me. Where’ve you been?” Jana’s voice sounded breathy and desperate.
Jason said nothing, cringing at her use of the pet name J. J., which she’d done since they were kids. While his investigator, Harry Davenport, sometimes referred to Jason as J. R., which he rather liked, he couldn’t stand J. J. He wasn’t sure if it was the nickname itself or the fact that his sister used it that made him hate J. J., but hate it he did. Memories flooded his mind, and he envisioned the lone photograph that he’d brought to the PAC, which was now tucked away in his suitcase. The one from Space Camp when they were kids. Jana with her thousand-megawatt smile and Jason with his bowl cut and braces, perpetually inadequate in his older sister’s presence. A mere accoutrement to her life.
“What is it, Jana?”
“I-I-I need your help.”
15
“Jason, have you ever heard of ‘gaslighting’？”
Three weeks into his therapy, after he’d been through detox and enough sessions for his counselor to get a feel for him, Jason’s therapist brought up this phenomenon.
“No,” he said.
“It’s a situation where a person manipulates another person by psychological means into questioning his or her sanity.” Michal studied Jason from across the small circular table that separated them. “Sound like anyone you know?”
Jason squinted back at her. He’d begun to get used to being sober, and the last week or so of therapy had focused on his family relationships, particularly with his father and sister. “What are you talking about?”
“Do you remember the story you told me yesterday?”
Jason shrugged but said nothing. Talking about Jana always made him uncomfortable, even in the quiet space of Michal’s office.
“You caught her having sex in high school. Her boyfriend was dropping her off. Your parents were asleep. You had walked to a friend’s house and were on your way back. You go past the vehicle and see her naked in the cab. She’s in his lap thrusting back and—”
“Stop,” he interrupted.
“I’m only retelling what you told me.”
“I know. I just . . .”
“You said that she saw you watching her.”
Jason looked away, not wanting to meet his counselor’s gaze. He nodded.
“And what did she do when she came inside the house?”
Jason tried to marshal his courage as he spoke. “She acted like nothing had happened. Fixed herself a bowl of cereal and asked me if Mom and Dad were still up.”
“Did you say anything to her?”
“I asked how she could do that with her boyfriend in our driveway, and she acted like I was crazy. She said she’d been dropped off by her friend Susan. Then she told me I needed to quit it with all of my teenage fantasies. Called me a Peeping Tom. She said that if I told Mom and Dad what I thought I saw, she’d tell them about how I watched her in the shower and that she’d caught me masturbating to a Playboy magazine.”